


Tomorrow's Just Your Future Yesterday

by Leca



Category: rise of the guardians
Genre: Coma, Drugs, Gen, Hallucinations, Implied Sexual Content, Psychotropic Drugs, Sleep Deprivation, Substance Abuse, more 'in-name-only' but yeah, some other bad stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 16:49:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leca/pseuds/Leca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s hard to stay up, it’s been a long, long day. And you got the Sandman at your door.<br/>But hang on; leave the TV on. And let’s do it anyway.<br/>It’s OK!<br/>You can always sleep through work tomorrow, okay?<br/>Hey hey!<br/>Tomorrow’s just your future yesterday.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tomorrow's Just Your Future Yesterday

**Author's Note:**

> One night I wrote this for reasons that will remain undisclosed. It's more "in-name-only" than anything else because it barely even uses the original work, but oh well. I think this is a better example of my writing style to be honest, so I'm sorry if it's not exactly what you're looking for fanfic-wise, but please enjoy! And yes this was originally on tumblr blah blah blah.

He threw the remote against the wall, cracking it open like the nut that he was, as he settled down onto his worst enemy; his bed.   
  
Or maybe his worst enemy was the room he sat in. It was like a black hole, or maybe Hell. The Devil slept there.  
  
At least the Devil was lucky enough to be able to get some sleep. He hadn’t slept in 3 days.   
  
And the white death coursing through his bloodstream was worse than any plague he had ever read about in school, but he needed it.  
  
These were the thoughts that ran through his mind - the only thing truly asleep, he also thought - as he sat on the bed of his old apartment. He was the definition of burnout, complete with charred hands, charred throat, and a charred soul. He was burnt because the Devil slept in his bed.  
  
His eyes were red, and the ceiling felt like it was moving. He knew he would just have to sit in the bare corner of his room and stare at the ground until it stopped.   
  
He tried to keep his room bare because the Devil occupied the furniture.  
  
The TV, destined to keep him alive and awake so he could suffer more.  
  
The bed, destined to keep him from comfort.   
  
The coffee table, destined to keep him going with all the things he wished he could get rid of.   
  
But no trash can. No window. No one.  
  
Occupied in his thoughts, he just barely heard a noise. It was coming from the foot of his bed, across the room. It was the Devil, he was sure of it.  
  
There he was; a tan man, standing over him.   
  
He screamed. Shouted every bible verse he ever bothered to learn. He cursed. But, as he thought a moment later, you can’t curse the Devil.  
  
The tan man was short and had spiky hair, almost as crazy-looking as his own, unwashed and disgusting. He couldn’t see the Devil’s face, but he knew it would be like looking in a mirror.   
  
Just as quickly as he came, the man left. He felt his breath catch for a moment before it went back to normal. Or as normal as could be with the unholy essence inside of him.   
  
He took one more hit before he rocked himself softly in his corner until morning.  
  
  
  
Visiting hours.  
  
He stood beside her hospital bed, the only thing coming into his ears being his own breathing and the steady beeps on the monitors.  
  
He reminisced, the only thing running through his mind being his own memories, whatever ones he had left of her.  
  
  
They were on a bed - his house or not, he couldn’t remember. He was on top of her, and they were both out of their minds and out of their clothes.  
  
He remembered how the death running through his system felt as they embraced in a twisted, substance-induced hold that only barely resembled a hug. It was more like a death grip, or a vice, crushing any soul that they both had left.  
  
He still had his intact.  
  
As for hers…  
  
The beeping was the only thing that reminded him that she was still there.  
  
  
They were on a bench - the park near his house or not, he couldn’t remember. He was next to her, and they were both out of their minds and out of their comfort zones.  
  
He remembered how only traces of his own demise were still running through his bloodstream as they compared their own mental scars like they usually did before parting. She would always win.  
  
He still had his on his mind.  
  
As for hers…  
  
The beeping was the only thing that reminded him that she still had one.  
  
With his hand in hers, he cried, the visiting hours coming to a close.  
  
  
  
It was his 4th consecutive night awake.   
  
He stared at the edge of his bed, at what he hoped was the Devil. He wanted him to leave. He wanted her back. He wanted himself back.   
  
He started to scream again.   
  
No one came to the door. No one came to his rescue. The Devil probably locked him in for the night.   
  
There was nothing he could do but scream and cry like a child.  
  
Because that’s what he was. Just a child.  
  
A fucked up, deranged child who didn’t know what direction to take, and so he needed even more guidance.  
  
Was there anything for him anymore?  
  
He could feel the Devil smiling at him. He could hear laughter. He could hear everyone - all 7 billion people, including her - laughing at him. He was a failure. This was his prison cell. There was no death penalty, just a life sentence.  
  
Suddenly, all the noise and the laughter was gone, replaced by the Devil.  
  
The sandy-colored man was standing in front of him now, smiling like he had won.   
  
And he knew he did.   
The thought made him scream his lungs out, and with the help of his self-abuse, it felt like he really had.  
  
He was writhing on the floor, the substance stretching his mind in all sorts of directions, one of them being towards the Devil. At least, that’s where his eyes went.   
  
His mouth went in another, curling into a sneer as he muttered the words.  
  
“Kill me.”  
  
The Devil didn’t move.  
  
“Kill me!”   
  
The Devil moved towards the bed and sat on it, smiling. Rather…   
  
warmly?  
  
And in that moment, he realized something.  
  
He was no Devil.   
  
The feeling that he got when the Devil sat in his bed was not this one.   
  
This man was a God. A guardian, maybe. Someone who would help kick the devil out of his bed.   
  
He was the Sandman.  
  
He had come to sing him to sleep and tuck him in.  
  
“Sing me a lullaby, Sandman,” he said as the Sandman looked down at him, still smiling.   
  
“Please! Let me _sleep!_ ”  
  
And so the Sandman did. He sang him a lullaby that felt like it would never end; one of mighty heroes and the children that looked up to them; how their wings and minds were bound, never to be used again; how believing could be seeing; how he had always been seeing and believing, but not believing in himself.  
  
How he could change.  
  
Tomorrow was not a new yesterday.  
  
Because tomorrow didn’t have to blend in with “yesterday” anymore.  
  
He could sleep until tomorrow.  
  
He could greet tomorrow with an open mind and open eyes.  
  
“Tuck me in.” Like a mother would a child, he thought.  
  
There was no Devil in his bed anymore.  
  
The only thing in his bed was him and a pillow.  
  
Standing at the foot of his bed was the Sandman, making sure no monsters remained under him and the skeletons in his closet would not come out and harm him anymore while he  
  
Slept.


End file.
